


Brice.

by Persephone



Series: Days of Wine and Roses [2]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: All Saints' Day, Angst, Brotherhood, Brotherly Affection, Brothers, M/M, Obsessive Behaviour, Sibling Incest, Threesome - M/M/M, Twincest, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stranger comes to town and tensions are exposed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**Prologue** _

It had been Murphy’s idea to go into town.

They’d been working like dogs for two weeks straight fixing the damaged water system on the farm and in such a foul temper the entire time, yelling and screaming at each other until they were hoarse with it, that when their Da had finally bellowed “Get the fuck out of my sight!”, neither of them had stopped to argue. 

And despite being the cause of his stress, when Murphy had suggested that they go into town on a bender like in the old days, he had said “Aye” without a second thought.

Marching into the shed that served as a bathroom for him and Murphy, he had picked up a pair of scissors, also without thought.

Three years of this shite. Of Murphy being so on him that the only way he felt he could breathe was when Murphy let him. Only found a measure of relief when Murphy let up on pouring his raw emotions into him like rainwater down a storm drain.

They should have gone back to their part of Ireland. He did understand that it would have been too easy a place for anyone looking for them, still he didn’t believe that the Irish authorities were all that keen on catching vigilantes who made sport of eradicating evil men. Neither did he believe that anyone in Ireland was interested in doing work for the FBI, full stop.

For his sake, for Murphy’s sake, he wished they had gone home instead of coming here, wherever here was. Instead of coming here and feeling that the world had gone away and the two of them were all that remained.

Snippets of wiry, godforsaken hair rained from his chin into the washbasin. The faster he snipped the lighter he felt. His breaths came smoother, more easily.

He looked into the mirror and found Murphy staring at him from the doorway. Murphy then turned and stomped away, a minute later returning with a pair of garden shears.

He held still as Murphy chopped his overgrown back length mane with obvious pleasure, not uttering a word as his hair fell in chunks to the floor. Done with the shears, Murphy picked up the black-painted steel scissors and resumed his butcherin’. Murphy yanked on his hair with typically too much violence, and he closed his eyes as his body heated up in the way it did every time Murphy got too physical. As though he was being caressed.

Finished, Murphy handed him the shears and held still as he returned the favor.

Minutes later they were clean-shaven except for their moustaches and goatees, their hair in short-cropped spikes—his going up, Murph’s going down. They stared intently into the mirror.

“We look good,” he said.

“Da’ll be pissed,” Murphy replied softly.

“Can’t be helped. Plus, it’s hair, it’ll grow back. And we looked like fucken escapees with it, anyway.” He dropped the scissors in the basin. 

“Come on,” he said shortly, and headed for the exit. Murphy quickly followed.

**1**

He was pissing in an alley near the pub he’d been told to frequent when the first of the two lads came up to him.

This was the fair one, the one with the confident air about his person. The one who’d been cutting him looks in the pub. Now the lad simply walked up to him, leaning sideways and peering bold as you please into his face.

He hadn’t much of a clue what the Irish were truly about, but this he wasn’t used to. The lad was saying some words to him to which he paid no attention until he was done and shaking off. He tucked back in and turned to the lad.

“What?” he bit out, questioningly.

The lad’s eyes were enlarged, staring at him as though at a true and valid miracle.

“I said you look just like my brother Murph,” the lad said, in an awed voice.

“I’m happy for you,” he said back, feeling a flare of his nostrils.

This boy had to be touched in the head to come following a stranger — and one looking like him at that, whom he wouldn’t follow into a dark corner were he being paid — for the purposes of saying such asinine words.

He walked around the young man, who turned to follow his progress out of the alley. At the entrance, he found a boy, dark-haired and with slits for eyes, staring hard at him. These lads couldn’t have even hit thirty. And could hardly be mistaken for brothers.

He turned to the fair one, still coming out of the alley, and pointed a finger at the one next to him.

“This your brother?”

“Aye.”

“That’s him standing right here. Why’d you feel the need to go looking for another one?”

The fair brother blushed. Even in the darkness he could see it. And for a flash the lad also looked confused.

But he hadn’t let his guard down for a second, so that the moment the dark one tensed, he felt it. Like a push against his chest. He looked from one brother to the next.

“You lads here to take my wallet, are yah?” 

The question made the fair one pull back. He took his eyes off that brother and turned fully to the one next to him. 

“You can’t be that daft.”

“We’re not fucken daft,” the dark one said quietly, now on the balls of his feet as if about to pounce. And with such intensity that he was surprised by it.

He started feeling oddly, as though he were the one trespassing.

He looked carefully from one brother to the next, unable to keep his eyes from narrowing at the transfixed manner in which the fair one stared at him. But returning his stare seemed to agitate him even more, causing the lad to make a sound so soft as to be mistaken for a mewl.

Baffling, it was, still he didn’t show interest. He waited expectantly, until suddenly the dark-haired one simply backed down, his lips tightening, darting an apologetic glance at him then his brother.

“Conn’s sorry he bothered ya,” the lad said. “We’ll be leavin’ now.”

The fair one started as if shoved awake. “Aye.” And came rushing past. “Come, Murph,” he said quickly, moving with quick steps, now out of his daze and seemingly unable to get away fast enough. “Da’ll be worried.”

The dark one followed more slowly, giving him one lingering last look over his shoulder.

He watched as they retreated into the night, thoughts spinning.

From his last worksite he’d left with no work left unfinished, and owed no man money. The denim on his legs were his own, as was the shirt on his back. And his fortune, good or bad, he wore around his neck in the form of his mother’s St. Jude’s.

He could think of no reason for those two or anyone else to come looking to him for trouble. He had but one week in this town, to find work and then he was gone. In that time he had no intention of partaking of someone else’s problems.  
Eyes totally still in the dark after the two brothers, he hoped his good fortune would hold out accordingly.

**2**

He’d noticed the man straightaway in the pub but hadn’t wanted to even look. The way his heart had done a free fall down to his stomach even before he’d fully understood what he was seeing, the way his body had responded as though from the memory of a type of touch, had been warning enough.

Maybe it had been the man’s eyes, the set of his mouth, or the tilt of his head. Perhaps his quiet, intense demeanor. Or maybe it had merely all been things he had wanted to see. But when they had locked eyes… He still lost his breath thinking of it.

He shouldn’t have gone outside to talk to him, shouldn’t have reacted like that, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. And up close, it had been even worse.

The man was well and truly Murphy’s double. It was only upon speaking that the illusion was shattered. As aside from a cloudy blur of a Welsh accent, his was a much deeper and sharper voice. But in ten years or so even those differences might not be so distinct.

He crumpled farther down into the seat of the truck, knees propped against the dash, as Murphy drove them home. He rubbed his fingers weakly across his forehead and stared out at the black sky. At the bright, slowly moving stars.

He had no idea why he was so entranced.

**3**

Da was livid, no question about it. The old man took one look at their missing manes and beards the next morning, and if anyone had ever blown a gasket and not shown it, it was their Da at that moment.

Da watched silently through slitted eyes as they slung their rifles onto their backs and prepared to ride out for the day. So much as a word he never uttered. But there would be consequences.

Frankly, he couldn’t care less.

He was being haunted by a face. That morning he had given Murphy several overly-delayed responses before having to own up to himself what he hadn’t wanted to think. That he had to go back into town and look for the man. It pushed against him and he pushed back. And then he had to give up. 

Against common sense and family preservation, he would go back into town. There were medicines and supplies and relationships to maintain, besides.

Convincing Da of it later that evening, however, was no mean feat.

They knew better than to be running around like this, there were ways to handle restlessness, on and on. Aye, he supposed, he explained, but he felt he had to go nonetheless. People knew that they had taken up residence on the farm a few years ago, most knowing better than to ask why. But still, wasn’t it better that they show their faces more often than not so as not to seem out of place?

Murphy had turned hot, interested eyes on him. He ignored Murphy for the moment.

If Da didn’t buy any of it, Da gave no indication. He only told him to watch himself at the pubs. He said that he would.

Of course it wasn’t Da he should have been worried about.

There was followup questioning from Murph, upon which he stuttered and faltered while making his way to the truck, and soon Murphy was suspicious. Still he wouldn’t tell his brother why he was going. When Murphy pointed out that they weren’t running low on feed and so didn’t need to go chat up some supplier in town, his response was that they were always fucken running low on feed, mainly because they were never fucken checking until it was too fucken late. It came out far sharper than he’d intended.

Murphy, following close on his heels, looked startled. “What’s a’matter, Connor?”

“Nothin’s the matter, Murph,” he said tightly. “Would ye, however, find it possible to allow me take a leak just _once_ without me having to share the pot with ye?”

Murphy stopped, abruptly, blinking at him.

He swallowed against a dust-dry throat, the words having flown out of him without a chance for consideration.

“Connor, what the fuck—?”

A softly projected voice interrupted their argument “Laddies...”

They turned to see Da standing at the threshold of the house, steadily tapping a finger against the stone door jamb. When sure he had their attention, their Da quietly informed them that they weren’t to go into town together again, under any conditions. At least not for the time being.

“One or the other,” Da said. “But not both o’ ya.”

Consequences. There they had it. 

But it settled the matter. Swinging open the truck door, he climbed in, managing to do a fine job avoiding his twin brother’s hurt and confused gaze.

**4**

He found the man in the same pub, holed up in the same corner, and took a seat opposite him. The man looked up as he settled in, his dark eyes warily but merely following.

Sitting comfortably, he reached for the ashtray and pulled out a cigarette. 

When no words appeared forthcoming from his object of interest, he said, “Are ye not startled t’ see me?”

“How’s a’?” the man immediately replied, his voice deep and billowing like sails, pulling on his vowels. “Inna poub? Wou’n’t make meh too fuckun brigh na, wou’ et?”

He pursed his lips, sucking on his smoke then slowly blowing it out. Unable to take his eyes off the man. 

“I have no fucken idea what you just said,” he said.

The man stared thin slits into him. His heart woke and pounded. Felt so good.

Tapping cigarette ash into the tray, he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Brice.”

“What are ya, Brice?”

“Welsh.”

For a split second he nearly tripped over his own words, so eager was he to quip in reply. Then had to stop and check if the joke was on him.

“Really,” he said, when he saw that Brice wasn’t joking. “Welsh? My first guess would have been Canadian.”

Brice didn’t seem to get the joke. Or maybe he just wasn’t one for much humor.

“What I meant was,” he said softly. “Wha’ do ya do for a livin’?”

Brice just kept staring. “What’s it to yew?”

“Nothin’ a’tall,” he said, sitting back, letting out a breath. “Will ye take a pint?”

Brice’s eyes were burning holes into him. He almost couldn’t take it. It was all so familiar...yet so different. His heart deepened its thudding. Like it was trying to burrow into him for both safely and a seeking of deeper pleasure. 

His tongue ran across his dry lips while Brice slowly tipped his glass and sat there looking into the emptiness as if searching for a reply.

“I will,” Brice finally said.

“Be back in a few,” he said, pushing up. Then he remained standing, staring down at Brice. Brice didn’t look up. Just kept staring at the tabletop.

“Somethin’ amiss, boyo?” Brice then asked.

“Connor,” he replied softly. “The name’s Connor. Don’t go anywhere.”

**5**

For some unknown reason, he and the lad connected. He hadn’t seen that coming. But they seemed to think in harmony and their conversation was light and easy.

And yet he was tense the entire time.

Still waiting to discover why the lad was so interested in him, whether he’d been marked for a mugging after all or whether he was about to find out that he had indeed crossed a man somewhere in his trails.

But all Connor did was talk and smoke, tap ash into his ashtray, drink his whiskey. And make love-eyes at him.

He didn’t think the lad was aware he was doing it. As though it were another conversation taking place entirely. He himself had been caught unawares by it, watching Connor wet his lips ever so often, so lightly, then purse them as though pondering that other conversation. Then his lashes would slowly bat, the conclusions in that other conversation apparently very much to his liking.

Yet a quick roll was plainly not what this lad would fancy, as that would have made for a much shorter pint.

“You never told me what you do for a livin’.”

Connor had a quiet but hurried way about his speech, not done with one thing and on to the next. Initially he’d concluded that he’d been right that first night: daft. And then he’d realized that it was in actuality the workings of a mind too sharp for its own good.

Now Connor was still waiting for a response, and so he said, “Mostly construction.”

“Mowstly?” Connor repeated, doing a fine imitation of his speech. It should have bothered him, but he heard no ridicule in it. “Is that why you’re in here so often?”

“It is,” he answered, looking around at the local colour. “A pub’s as good a place as any to meet those in need of labour.”

“Indeed. So what do you do the rest of the time?”

He gave it some thought, then decided he wished to move this dance along. Fastening his eyes on Connor, he waited till he had his full attention.

“Do you mean for a livin’?” he then asked.

Connor started talking but no words came out.

He waited. There was the tongue again. Wetter, quicker this time.

“You look so much like Murph,” Connor said, his voice thick. “He-he’s my brother.”

“So you’ve said.”

Connor licked his lips once more. He appeared to be blushing.

It wasn’t going to be the first time he would be with a male. He’d not be sitting here on the receiving end of such a display had that been the case. Connor was a pretty lad. But he did wonder what this song was all about and why the resemblance to his brother seemed to be the refrain.

**6**

They were about to leave when he brushed fingers with Brice.

It happened just like that. Having reached for their wallets, they’d dropped their money on the table and grazed fingers. And sparks had simply flown.

Pulling his hand back, he’d stared down at it as if checking for a burn, then shoved his wallet into his jeans and nearly tripped over his feet getting out of the pub. 

Brice was hard on his heels, following him into the very back of the alley where Brice grabbed him by the lapel of his coat and pushed him into the wall.

And then Brice stared at him. And he held still. His eyes were so dark, so narrow, his face so in shadow that for long moments he faintly shook with the need to call him by the wrong name. He stared asking himself what he thought he was doing. What he hoped to accomplish here.

But up against the wall, burning up, it was lust for this dangerously beautiful man that was consuming him. He placed a hand on Brice’s shoulder, kneading his muscles there. And waited, breathing shallowly and licking his lips. All thoughts on release with him.

Brice looked down at the hand on the shoulder, then back up at him. They were not there yet. His interest was too keen. 

Upon no further move from Brice, he relaxed against the wall and stared at him through half-lidded eyes, sliding his hand up the back of his warm neck, gripping his hair.

Brice only stared at him. He couldn't blink. It was like watching Murphy...as someone else. 

“Is this what yew wanted?” Brice asked.

He slowly nodded.

Brice’s hand twisted into his shirt, unhurriedly, making him briefly squeeze shut his eyes, for behaviour no different than his brother’s. It was as if Brice was still making up his mind, still trying to figure out what was really going on. And then he was being pressed back into the wall, the body against him crushing, and then they were tasting the inside of each other’s mouths.

And it was breathtaking. He was reading too much into this. He was panting when Brice broke the kiss.

Hand still on him, as if still unsure of letting him go, Brice pulled back, holding him against the wall, popping open his fly, yanking stiff denim aside. When his hand plunged into his crotch, it was all he could do to not howl. He was rock hard before Brice’s rough hand had closed around him. Fighting not to thrust, not to move too fast. Quickly unzipping him, he concentrated on returning the favour.

But he pulled back when his hand wrapped around a fat, hot cock, pulled back and stared down at it. While Brice thrust in his hand.

“Jaysus,” he whimpered, losing what train of thought he’d been on. Brice pressed into him, closing the space, his hot breaths bursting in his ear.

“Yew ar’a pretty lad, Connor,” Brice breathed, the rough hand on him squeezing. “All of yew.” Then Brice leaned in and scraped his teeth across his cheekbone. He trembled with the unexpected caress, held still as Brice kissed his neck, then his tattoo of the Blessed Mother. Possessively. Just like— His toes curled, a hot climax already mounting him. It was all too good, so familiar, yet so different…

Brice had slowly pulled back, still had him pinned to the wall. While his fingers continued doing terribly delicious things to his cock, his eyes had bored into him— and he realized that Brice wanted to watch him come.

For a sharp moment the thought terrified him, and he didn’t know what to do. Then Brice appeared to change his mind, looked down at the cock he was fondling, and slowly lowered himself to his knees. 

While Brice slid his warm lips under his shaft, mashing it into his stomach, sucking him with loud noises, he lost his breath, thinking it was all going too fast… The lips on him savagely went over his stiff cock, sucking him all the way in, allowing him to hold it together for just four sugary sucks before he was gasping and spurting come down Brice’s throat. 

Brice closed his arms around him, and sensation hit him like a crack of lightening, buckling his knees. Making him grip Brice’s hair. While Brice made soft, guttural sounds, which only made it worse. 

He gasped into the dark, empty alley, fighting not to give into everything all at once, but knowing he had already lost his way. Much too soon he was groaning, pumping... quietly cursing. 

And then he was floating down.

Brice slid free of him, licked him carefully while he watched, waiting for his vision to focus, mesmerized by the familiarity of the stranger’s dark head. His thoughts tried to run in a hundred different directions at once. He stopped it. Stopped it cold.

When Brice rose to his feet and wrapped his arms around him, he opened his mouth to his own, taking tongue slowly tangling with his. He found his sock, moaned softly and jacked him off with enthusiasm, spreading warmth and wetness all over his fingers, between them, and on Brice’s stomach. Brice thrust hard into his fist even as he held his gaze, and it was nice, burning heat, then he was shuddering as he was climaxing, his cock pulsing. Brice took him by the hips, his hard spurts coming like from a broken fountain. 

And then, slowly, eventually, coming to a halt. Brice dropped his head to his shoulder, deep breaths coming against his neck, then slowly replaced by slower, softer ones. 

They stayed like that for awhile, until Brice slowly pulled back. 

And he immediately made eye contact in the hopes that this time when they locked eyes, his fixation would be gone.

He had no such luck.

Brice dipped his head and softly kissed his lips. “Yew’ll be back for more?”

He nodded without a moment’s hesitation. He tried not to think about anything beyond that.

 

**7**

 

Something about Connor was different.

Connor stripped off his shirt, grabbed his kit and headed for the shed to shower, and he observed in silence. Ever since returning from town, Connor had been tight-lipped. Closed-off and distant. And yet Connor seemed more... _relaxed._

He’d presumed Connor had had a good time at the pub, for which he was glad. But when he’d asked if all had gone well Connor had whipped on him and asked, “What d’ye mean?” 

It had been so startling he hadn’t been able to respond.

Lying in bed now, in the darkness, he still didn’t know what to make of it.

Prior to, they hadn’t had a fight past the normal ones they got into every fucking day on this farm. And Connor hadn’t given any indication that he’d done anything specifically wrong. 

Yet Connor had all but stopped talking to him.

It had been days, he’d hoped it’d passed, but it hadn’t. And he fought against thinking that it might be the one thing he didn’t want it to be, the one thing that made him sore. A thing to which Connor had been speaking practically since they had gotten there. He fought against it but it taunted him because were it true, there was nothing he could do about it.

It might be that Connor was rejecting his constant presence.

But that was unthinkable.

Why wouldn’t Connor want to be together at all times, like at any other time in their lives? He couldn’t think of a single reason why. Why Connor wasn’t burning up with need like him, want like him. Why it was suddenly only him feeling a tug like a fishhook in his heart pulling in whichever direction Connor went.

It was unthinkable, yet Connor kept telling him to back off, to stop acting like the world was made up of only the two of them now. For him to go back to the way they had been in Boston.

Sure, he’d love to do that. But for the life of him he couldn’t remember how that was.

Turning, he punched his pillow, then buried his face in it, feeling no relief at all.

Soon Connor came back and without looking at him, climbed into his own bed across the cold room. Chewing on his thumb, his eyes unseeing to the wall, he waited for Connor to say something. Goodnight, anything. But Connor said nothing. And after minutes, it was apparent that Connor was asleep.

He waited a little more, then simply got out of bed and quietly crossed the stone floor.

Connor didn’t wake as the bed dipped under his weight, righted itself as he swung his legs onto it. He laid down next to Connor and carefully pulled up the covers. Then he carefully shifted closer, on his side, his front to Connor’s back, pressing his face into his warm hollow of his twin’s neck.

Connor stirred but still didn’t wake, with moments passing, then arched into him with a warm groan, making him mewl a little, his arm instinctually contracting around Connor’s waist. He then braced for an elbow against his ribs that didn’t come, and instead Connor reached behind for his arm, pulling it forward all the way around him, tighter around his body.

He mewled openly, kissing softly on Connor’s neck. Then he buried his face in Connor shoulder until he couldn’t breathe, and like that fall asleep.

**8**

The following evening, though, when he asked Connor if he could go with him into town and fuck what Da said, Connor exploded on him.

“No, Murph! Ya can’t fucken do it! Ya can’t fucken come with me! How the fuck did’ja ever manage in Boston!”

Startled, speechless, he held his hands to his head. Then he too was yelling.

“What the fuck, Connor!” he cried in exasperation. “What the fuck is up with you? It’s just a fucken bar!”

“All right, then,” Connor said radiantly, climbing into the truck. “Ye can fucken come with me. But we’re not fucken entering the same fucken bar.”

And then he had to step away as Connor started up the truck, and gave Connor both his middle fingers as Connor put the truck in gear and drove off without another look or word.

**9**

Seeing him again was easy. Easy on the eyes, easy on the mind.

They talked about nothing in particular, merely eyefucking until they could do the real thing.

Brice had rented a trailer for the week at the town limits, and there they took their wants when they had talked enough for the night.

Or perhaps the nightly hours-delay was because Brice still didn’t seem fully convinced of what he might be really after. Because try as he might, he knew he wasn’t doing a good enough job of not staring half the time, of not watching the words form on Brice's lips like a man who’d never seen another speak.

But inevitably they would end at Brice’s trailer. And then they would be fucking.

And it was unbelievable.

It was so good it was almost romantic. On his back, on his side, on his hands and knees, they fucked like lovers. They gave to and took from each other as freely and as much as they wanted. Sent each other into highs of pure ecstasy that with— That would otherwise have unleashed a torrent of heartache in him.

Now, flat on his back, his ankles hooked on working Welsh shoulders, he stared into Brice, basking in the absence of all of that.

Brice stared his hot, twin holes into him, his black hair falling over his forehead. His hand was slid into his groin, holding him down while his ass and balls got played with. He breathed through the heat of it, watched as Brice’s tongue slid out and snaked up the side of his mouth, spellbound because it went where Murphy’s mole would have been. 

All he heard were his own soft breaths.

It was Murphy without the pressure. He was unable to avoid thinking it now. It was well past that. Murph without the pain. Nothing pulling at his heart as they consumed each other, and he was free to be wanted without being needed. To look into eyes flooded with yearning without drowning in fear.

He was free to just be Connor again.

He curled his ankles, bringing Brice closer, and gripped his thighs as he pushed under him. Writhed into his touch. Got himself in position for a deep, long fuck. Brice made soft sounds of approval, gentle working class man that he was, spreading his fingers over his groin, digging into the hollows there. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he planned to live in this unhindered pleasure, then realized he didn’t want to take his eyes off the dark head over his body. He opened his eyes as those evocative hands slid to his knees, pushing his legs up. He adjusted himself, Brice smoothly pushed in.

No wail or cry for his heart accompanied Brice’s movement. But he heard it.

Loud and clear inside him, moving deep throughout his body, a elemental sound he had been born hearing.

Tight waves of pleasure sank him, tugged at his heart, his head so hot he could barely see the dark head, the open mouth panting over him. They collided arms, reaching for each other, gripping each other's forearms. With his other hand he held onto the edge of the mattress. Brice leaned in and began slamming into him, hard, steady, the silver St. Jude’s swinging from around his neck, brushing against his skin like the beads of a rosary. Making his cock throb. Until he was helpless to fight it and shut his eyes. 

“Give it to me, Murph,” he cried softly.

And then he rolled his lips tight. Flushed with embarrassment.

Slowly, his eyes opened.

Brice’s black eyes were locked on him, narrowed and missing nothing, his groin locked against his ass. He had no idea what was on the man’s mind, what he might have heard. But his cock burrowed deeper, almost helplessly, hips rotating a little harder, and a fine sheen of sweat had broken over his skin. It now gleamed under the bright florescent lights.

He lost himself, taking him as deeply as he could. He let go, never fearing for one moment that they would set fire to the world, let it burn, and not care about finding their way back.

**10**

Connor’s shite attitude went on for four successive nights.

Each night, Connor went into town without extending him so much as an invitation for a shot of whiskey. And always returned reeking of it.

Reeking of something.

Smarting badly at the repeated rejections, thrashing hay in the misty morning sunshine — sweating though it was only 9am — he tried to ignore Connor to piss him off. 

But Connor wouldn’t even make eye contact and give him the satisfaction.

Then he tried ignoring what he was feeling, not wanting to even get to the point where he felt the need to ignore Connor in the first place. 

But his wishes wouldn’t pay him any heed either, trailing Connor around the field like a dumb puppy. So he threshed and stacked and seethed in total, infuriated silence.

It wasn’t until day’s end when they were in the barn putting away equipment, and he saw Connor strip off his gloves, clearly ready to head into town again, that the fight finally pushed its way out of him.

“You can’t keep going into town, Connor,” he drawled out loudly. “We’re on the fucken lam, in case you hadn’t noticed. Da’s worried and it’s jeopardizing our situation. All of fucken Ireland is aware of your presence by now.”

“It’s not jeopardizing our situation. Just-just trust me, Murph, it’s not. I’m not doing any such thing. I’m being extra careful.”

He also ignored Connor’s simpering, conciliatory tone. “That’s not the fucken point. You need to stop with the—” 

“Murph, I swear t’ya, it’s okay.”

“What the fuck is going on with ya, anyway? You know you’re being reckless?”

“I-I’m not being reckless, Murph,” Connor quickly said, apparently only interested in repeating whatever he pointed out. “I-I promise you I’m not. But I need you to—” 

Connor stopped, took a sudden, deep, breath, and then his light blue eyes flitted about the barn in the late afternoon sunlight, his complexion reddening a shade. 

To his astonishment, he realized that Connor was embarrassed.

He couldn’t remember the last time fucken exhibition Connor was embarrassed about anything.

And then, just like that, clarity dawned on him.

It was as though his mind had simply put together all the floating strands, and he wondered why it had taken him so long. But he supposed he had known all along.

“It’s about that man, isn’t it?” he asked softly.

“I just- just need you to back away from me, just now, Murph. I just- I need ta—” 

“Back away from ya?” he asked, disbelieving, his tenuous hold on his temper slipping. 

Pushing away from the shelves, he approached his brother. 

“Back away from ya, you say? So you can go fuck a man who looks just like me?”

Connor’s head whipped around at him. 

And he was glad for that. He wanted to fucken rearrange Connor’s face more than he’d ever wanted anything in this life.

But Connor’s eyes were wide not just with fury but with shock. And his embarrassment didn’t seem to have gone anywhere.

“D’ya think I’m a fucken retard, Conn? Not able to see your stupid fucken plans, for so obvious a reason?”

“Murph…”

“Why not just say why you’re doin’ it?” he taunted, ignoring Connor’s warning tones. “Running into town every chance you get like a fucking whore on the clock.”

“I swear t’ fucken _Christ,_ Murph—”

“Say it,” he said hoarsely, regarding Connor with utter disgust. “Just fucken say it instead of playing your dumb games, and telling your dumb lies, that could get us all into hot water.” Then, feeling it rise, unable to keep out his frustrations and every other fucking thing eating away at him, he heard himself jeering, “Do you think you fucking _loooove_ him, Connor?”

“Murph—”

“Do you come when he’s inside you, Connor? Huh? Calling _m’ fucking name_ like a dying bitch!”

“Watch what the fuck you say, Murph!” Connor suddenly yelled.

Advancing on him, Connor shoved him into a corner beneath an angled beam. His head banged. Connor’s eyes were close and deadly. “Watch what the _fuck_ you say!”

“Or what?” he asked softly, leaning in so close, Connor could feel his breath on his mouth. “Or fucken what?”

They held their tension for long moments. 

And then Connor stood there and did nothing. Connor’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“Brice—”

And then he couldn’t even breathe. He’d never felt such emotions at the sound of a stranger’s name.

“Brice what?” he whispered, willing the hoarseness in his voice away. And when Connor wouldn’t say anything, he asked around the brick lodged in his throat, “Is it better, Connor?” 

His mirrored emotions played across his brother’s face, but he merely pushed on. 

“Is it easier not to feel anything? It’s what you’d like, isn’t it? To fuck me without having to have me inside your head. Fuck’s sake, does he even know you’re doin’ it?”

Connor slammed the side of the barn right above his head. 

“Shut it, Murph!” 

Then shoving him hard, enough to make him bang again against the wall, Connor just as suddenly let him go. 

He righted himself, so livid the ground was titling. But he took a breath and found his hold on himself oddly intact. He flicked his eyes to Connor’s face.

“You think I should go back to the way we were in Boston,” he told him. “But you’re wrong. I’ve changed. There’s no going back to that. Otherwise I’d just pulverized your head.” 

“Go on and give it a shot, Murph.”

For a moment he watched the sparks fly from his brother’s eyes. Then he just tossed up a dismissive hand.

“Ah, who fucken cares,” he said, hating the hoarseness still in his voice. “You’re nothin’ but a lying bitch anyway.”

“Oh, who’s the fucken bitch, Murph?” Connor shot back, turning on him, not skipping a beat. “Who’s been acting like cling-moss ever since we got here? You, that’s who. It’s a fucken wonder I can breathe with you on my neck all fucken day and night. Just-just remember that when ye start throwin’ blame around.”

“Couldn’t give a fuck, Conn,” he said, throwing up both arms. “Wanna know why you're actin’ like I don’t understand your needs, is all.”

“Just _don’t,_ Murph. Don’t talk about the things I need. I’m not having this conversation with ye anymore. We’ve both been asses. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Seeming well and truly done, Connor headed for the exit.

“And stay the fuck out of my bed from now on,” Connor called over his shoulder. “We’re not six anymore.”

“Aw, fuck you!” he shouted back. “I’ll sleep right fucken here if I want. I hope you live happily ever after playin’ hide and seek with your fucken self!”

Connor slammed the barn door on his way out and he found himself alone.

**11**

The following morning, Da was sitting out on the veranda waiting for him on his daily way into town.

Murph was in the doorway leaning against the jamb and staring a black hole into him. Quickly, he looked away from the all too familiar gaze, feeling as though he was about to leave it— just to go get more of it. It was all so confusing.

“Lad,” their Da called softly, with his iron rod of a voice underneath. “What on earth d’ya think you’re doin’?”

“All was quiet and nothin’ was out of the ordinary, Da.” 

“Answer the fucken question,” Murph said.

“Stay the fuck out of this,” he snapped, pointing a finger at his brother.

Murphy’s eyes narrowed, and it was like— A faint sweat began breaking out over his hands.

Whether he was angry at Murph or at himself for playing what Murphy so rightly called a game, he didn’t honestly know. Didn’t know and didn’t care. All he wanted was to be in town and to be fucking Brice with his eyes open. It was just that simple.

“It’s nothin’ Da,” he said to their father. “I promise it’s nothing. I just need to take care of something and it’ll soon be over.”

“What’ll be over?” Murphy sneered softly. “Your lyin’ ways?”

Slowly, their father turned, his eyes drifting to the doorway to where Murphy stood mouthing off. Understanding that he had crossed a line with Da’s patience, Murphy clamped his mouth. 

Their father first brought his gaze back to him, then let it slowly move into the distance, in the direction of town. They stayed like that for a while, seemingly contemplating whatever was in that direction.

Then Da stood up. “Sort yourselves out, lads.” And without another word, he walked past Murphy into the house.

**12**

He too went inside after their Da. 

He’d made sure to throw Connor one last disgusted look though, before shutting the door behind him. 

Connor could go fuck himself with his precious, tormented soul attitude. _He_ wasn’t losing his shit just because things were rough on the farm. Just because their lives, once so brilliant and shining with excitement and nigh on perfection, had deteriorated to sheep shearin’ and shit shoveling. 

And in spite of what he had told Connor in the barn, he ought to have beat some sense into him. Make him take Da’s concerns to heart. Not to mention get some release from his frustrations.

Stopped by the parlour window, he found himself staring outside. Connor was still standing by the veranda’s edge where they’d left him, his mind clearly stuck fast. At first he thought, good, Connor needed to think real hard about his attitude and nonsense.

But then, not thinking he was looking, Connor turned and stared in the direction of town, like their Da had done. And he got a clear look at Connor’s face. It was then that he realized that something was wrong.

Connor didn’t look angry, an emotion he would have expected from their argument. 

Connor looked confused.

He didn’t even need eyes to see it.

Connor’s grip was tight on the wooden railing, his brow drawn equally so, his lips drawn in a thin line.

Staying where he was, he tried to understand what he was seeing. It was an echo of what he’d seen in Connor’s eyes in that odd moment where Connor had looked away from him, when Da had started talking. He’d thought Connor was just being intentionally mean, but he’d been angry and unthinking and had ignored the fact that Connor didn’t have a mean bone in his body.

Confusion was never a result from any of their fights. Neither of them took the other seriously enough for that to happen.

He had been angry because...he’d thought Connor knew what he was doing with that man. 

But seeing this, were he to guess, he’d say that Connor looked like a person waiting for answers.

But what was the fucken question?

**13**

He thought and thought about it, weighing the potential consequences against the hoped-for results, and when he was convinced it was the right thing to do, with Da and Connor elsewhere on the farm, he went into town to see Brice.

At the pub, he was directed to a back room, and there he found our lovely Brice talking to a man he knew to be a local foreman. Arm propped against the open doorway, he waited his turn for an audience. 

He wanted to be cool, but already he wasn’t. He didn’t like the look of the man. Never had. All that chattering Connor had done that first night about how much they looked alike — whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean — hadn’t impressed him. _Connor_ looked more like him than did this suspicious-looking character.

The foreman finished and came by the door, nodding to him. He stepped aside and let him through, then turned to Brice.

**14**

It took him a moment to figure out who the lad by the door was and why he was staring so viciously at him. And then it came to him that it was Connor’s brother, the one he was supposed to look like. Name of Murphy.

He was surprised to see the lad. Not so surprised at what it did to his more private parts.

With the look the lad had on his face, however, he prepared himself for some unpleasantness. And then Murphy started to talk.

Ready as he was to hear condemnation for sleeping with the brother — the Irish were belligerent about everything — he didn’t at first know what to think when he started hearing instead a sort of pained whine. To “stay away from him, stay the fuck away from him!”

He didn’t think the lad knew how he was coming off.

Not sure what to even think, seeing no reason given or forthcoming for it, he slowly went over to the door. And noted that Murphy didn't move. 

He waited for him to finish, glanced into the hallway, to make sure they weren’t overheard, and turned back to Murphy. He leaned in a bit.

“Listen boyo,” he said kindly. “First off, this isn’t any of your business. What happens between me and your brother happens between me and your brother.” He was looking at Murphy’s mouth as he spoke, a bit more helplessly than he would have liked, but Murphy was unmoving. “If you don’t like that, there’s nothing I can do about it. Second off, fearing that your brother’s a poofter is a foolish thing to worry about. We’re grown men, we do as we please.”

He finished talking and pulled back.

Murphy was now staring at him, his face lit up with disbelief. “No wonder Conn likes ya,” he said. “You two are the fucken same.” 

Then Murphy paused, his lips, everything about him tightening. 

“Now you listen, y’ Welsh sheepfucker. I couldn’t give a shit what you think about anything, and you can feel free to do whatever Connor’ll let ya, couldn’t care less.” And it was plain to see that this was a lie. “But I have my eye on ya, and you have extreme caution with Connor. If you do anything to hurt him, if you so much as take _advantage_ of him, so help me, I’ll fucken kill ya.” Murphy then looked hard into his eyes. “And that’s fact.”

He was silent.

It was astounding, the boy not making any effort to hide the pain in his black eyes. Though they were bloodshot and his lips were all but a thin line, Murphy stared at him as though nothing seemed out of the ordinary about coming to the rescue of a grown man’s virtue.

It was plain to see he had fallen into the middle of something. Though for the life of him he couldn’t say what.

He calmly reminded Murphy that Connor was the one who carried a gun. “If anyone ought to be afraid, should it not be me?”

“A word is enough for the wise,” Murphy said, pushing away from the doorway. “Have a nice fucken day.” And with that, he turned into he hallway and left.

He stared into the empty hallway that Murphy had occupied and had to admit he was intrigued.


	2. Chapter 2

**15**

The next time Connor was draped on his caravan’s couch, leg over the back, piece on the coffee table, smoking a fag, looking as sexy as any man had the right to be, he told him about the visit from his brother. Connor didn’t say a word but seemed unsurprised.

“So angry over mere the possibility of your being hurt,” he told Connor. “He truly loves yew.”

Connor’s lips twisted, apparently in an effort to suppress a smile. It was somehow the loveliest and yet most obnoxious thing he had ever seen. It made a man feel obtuse.

“It’s like a burnin’, it’s so intense,” he went on, hoping for some engagement. “I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like it.” He paused, and then added, “Can it be because yew’re twins?”

“Fuckifiknow.”

He sat back and breathed. Then, giving the tension enough time to pass, he stood up and went over to the couch.

Bending over, he took the fag from Connor’s fingers, which Connor released without a word. He put it out in the ashtray and turned back to his prize. Touching Connor’s moustache, he traced the faint goatee, now with a little shade of beard, around his chin.

“You farm lads a’ra bit confusing,” he said softly. “I’ll tell you that much.” 

Connor didn't respond. He debated whether to say it, then decided that he should, as things were tense enough without any more secrets.

“And are you and your brother…” and he let his words drift off. 

Connor slowly lifted his eyes to him, lay there watching him. 

“Are me and my brother what?”

The question was lightly presented, a simple request to go on. But no man’s fool was he. Straightening, he grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and stripped it off, tossing it to the floor. Then, one knee on the couch next to Connor’s hip, he waited, watching Connor appraise the hard ridge outlined against his denim’s leg. He hoped it was reply enough to his question. 

With all this talk of him and his brother, he would hope Connor might have a clue as to what was going through his mind. It was only natural.

The side of Connor’s mouth pulled.

Then he chose to say the other thing he had taken from the encounter. “He’s a lovely lad,” he said and meant it.

Connor stretched, leisurely, one hand rising to his head to trail long fingers through his spiky hair, giving him a smile that was part smirk, all satisfaction.

He reached for his belt, never taking his eyes off Connor. He had the feeling that when it came to things like what he’d just expressed, Connor was used to getting his way.

**16**

“So you went and paid him a visit.”

Sitting on the bed of the truck, staring out at the sunset across the fields, Murphy didn’t much stir when he came upon him.

“Girlfriend come cryin’ to ya?” Murph said instead.

He came ‘round the back of the truck. “Murph…”

Murphy’s eyes were glistening and blinking rapidly. Seeing Murphy’s state, he slowed to a stop while still a few paces away. It wasn't aggression he wanted to convey.

“I got a good look at him, Connor. A real close look,” and then Murphy fell silent, as if involuntarily. 

Which confirmed to him that having seen what he himself saw in Brice, whether he liked it or not, Murphy could not deny it. Just as he himself could just barely face it.

With his voice cracking over every other word, Murphy spoke to him. 

“I know what it is I do to you, Connor. I know it’s me, Murph, driving you crazy. Always and forever. But isn’t this the way it’s always been? No matter how fucken painful, isn’t this what we are? Fucked, but always together?” Murphy’s voice then refused to work altogether, and it was a few struggling moments before he managed to ask, “So why the fuck are ya leaving me now?”

“Ah, Murph...”

“You’re a fucking asshole, Connor. You’re an asshole and a coward for making me be the bad guy. For having to say what we’re both feeling.”

He swallowed, and found he couldn’t speak. Not in the face of truth as plain as that. That it was him, Connor, driving Murph crazy. Always and forever.

He lowered his eyes.

“If you wanna fucken go, go. If ya can’t take the fucken pressure, get the fuck out. Da and I’ll be fine.”

“Murph,” he said sadly, shaking his head, so drained of resistance he could barely stand there and talk. “This isn’t real. It’s just something I’m going through. Why don’t ye just let it go? Why don’t ye not think about it?” 

Murphy dropped his eyes, his lips so tight it felt as though a hand had clutched his heart.

“That’s a fucking asinine thing to say, Connor,” Murphy said in a wet rasp. “And you know it.”

His own eyes began stinging, staring as he was at his twin’s red and livid ones. Murphy sniffed and wiped his nose, and after a moment stood up and started around the truck, silently walking back to the house.

He himself didn’t move for a long time.

**17**

That evening he left the farm one last time in search of Brice.

Brice, when he reached him, was leaving town. Found work a couple towns over and was heading out by morning. 

He stood in the entrance to the caravan and watched the rough, beautiful Welshman stuff clothes into a duffle. Brice glanced up at him, his eyes lingering for a moment before lowering back to his task.

“Have yew not had your fill?”

About to reply, he smiled instead, realizing what precisely Brice was asking.

“Not of ya, no,” he replied, then paused. “But I understand what yer askin’ and the answer is yes, I think I’ve had my fill.”

Brice didn’t respond. Then he said, “I don’ understand it and I don’ envy yew. But I also don’ wish to get in the way of it.”

He nodded slowly, scrubbing the stubble on his jaw. “Aye, I hear ya. Though…it’s a wee bit more complicated than that.”

Brice looked up at him. He stepped inside.

**18**

He’d told Murphy to meet him at the abandoned barn at the edge of their property, but Murph had given him no indication one way or another whether he’d be coming. So it was with relief that he saw him approaching in the night air.

At the entrance, he moved aside so Murphy could enter, then turned around to see what Murphy would do upon seeing who was inside.

Murphy walked in, took one look at where Brice was standing in one corner, where they had laid out blankets over the hay, and threw up a hand.

“Not fucken interested,” Murphy said, turning back around.

He stretched an arm across the barn’s entrance. Murphy stopped and stood there staring daggers at him. He looked behind Murphy to see Brice lowering his eyes to the floor. 

Brice had told him that it might be an untenable situation, that if that turned out to be the case he would simply leave. But Brice hadn’t dropped his eyes quick enough. He had seen the look in them.

And he knew his brother all too well.

“Have a seat, Murph,” he invited gently, lifting his chin toward the corner of the barn.

“With ya fucken pervert?” Murphy asked dangerously.

He put his plea into his eyes. “Please, Murph,” he said softly.

Murphy hesitated, still clearly indecisive, before turning around and stomping over to where Brice was standing. At a tense stop before him, Murphy eyed, and Brice extended a hand, saying, “Don’t believe’s wey’ve ben prow’ply introwduced.”

Turning a half-disgusted look at him, Murphy all but spewed. “Fucken queer as shit accent.”

By now he had hurried over to where both stood, halting beside them, and then utterly failing in not staring from one man to the other. Enthralled, he took in the almost identical angles and planes of their faces, even taking in that Murphy’s animosity seemed somehow a mirror of Brice’s fascination. It was like watching a weird fantasy play out.

“Murph,” he said, around a hoarse throat. “I’d like for ye to be formally introduced to Brice... Brice from Wales. Brice, this is my brother Murphy.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance,” Brice said, obviously with an effort at a more accommodating enunciation. The attempt made him squash unexpected amusement. 

“It’s fucken lovely to meet ya,” Murphy said, brattishly, tilting his head to make sure that Brice could see it was anything but.

He had, naturally, prepped Brice for the worst. And Brice being an adult was thankfully ready to treat them accordingly. 

Slowly, fearlessly, Brice touched Murphy’s jaw and lifted it. Murphy didn’t seem to have expected the unaggressive, tender move. Still, Murphy continued to give Brice a dark look.

“Your brother’s been telling me I’ve been treadin’ on your turf.”

Murphy’s lips clamped up, like a little boy caught off guard. And looked like he would dearly love to tread on Brice, period.

“I didn’na mean to.”

“What the fuck do ya know about it?” Murphy quietly spat out.

“I know enough to tell yew that yew’re wastin’ your anger. At least, on me.” 

Between them, he had barely been breathing. Now Brice turned an identically dark but oh so different look at him. “I enjoy being with your brother,” Brice said, to Murphy while looking at him. “And ‘e thinks of naught else save yew.” Then he turned back to Murphy. “And that’s the long and short of it.”

“Go fuck ya’self,” Murphy said, pulling his face so that it broke Brice’s hold on his chin. 

And yet he hadn’t missed that Murphy’s breath had all but dissipated. Brice’s words seem to have affected him, as unprepared as he must have been for them. And who could now miss the flush on his face. 

No matter Murphy’s antagonism, this was what he had wanted Murphy to see. That there was no hidden aspect to his experience with Brice. That there was no thing to fear. It just was what it was.

Murphy stole him a look, in response to which he stroked Murphy’s hair. “Ye don’t believe yer all I think about, Murph?” he teased gently.

Murphy dropped his eyes to the hay sprayed barn floor, his lips tighter than ever, his face aflame. “I ain’t sayin’ shit in front of some fucken strange man,” he said hoarsely.

“He just came by to say no hard feelings,” he said softly, stroking his nape. “That was nice of him to do. Was it not, Murph?”

Murphy didn’t reply, only flicked another glance at him and seemed to nip whatever words he had been about to utter. But Murphy nodded faintly. And slowly, he stepped closer to him, tilting his head to kiss him behind the ear where his fingers had warmed his skin. Murphy gave him the softest, smallest of sounds, and he pulled back just in time to see his lashes drop, the vexed look warring with capitulation.

From the start of the whole mess, it was clear that Murphy had been spoiling for a fight. A need that had to be fed. But starved, the need was fast losing its hold on his hurt brother’s mind. And gone, Murphy would give him a chance to speak. Another chance to show him what he meant to him.

He leaned in and softly whispered that he had missed him so much. Murphy immediately turned to him, grabbing at him before they were sure of what was happening. He didn’t know when they started kissing. It was suddenly just happening, their arms wrapped around each other, their bodies fusing so tightly he felt like he had suddenly been vaporized. And it came to him just as instantly that he had forgotten, totally forgotten, that he and Murphy hadn’t been together in weeks, so that with their tongues suddenly touching, it was like adding fuel to a kindling fire.

They forgot their spectator a hot moments. He kissed all over Murphy’s face, breathing on him and whispering to him in Gaelic, the only tongue that could convey their feelings. Murphy made more whimpering sounds, returning his kisses as fervently, as much as he would let him. 

With perfect silence from Brice, who had not moved, he unbuttoned Murphy shirt and shoved it off his shoulders, then took him by the waist, while Murphy clutched at him, tilting his head and letting him kiss beneath his jaw. And then down his neck, along his shoulders. Down to his chest. Contracting his arms and bringing him in tight, both of them trembling with their everlasting fever.

Murphy breathed heavily. “Connor,” he whispered, so quietly as to be mistaken for a thought. But he heard him.

“Aye, Murph,” he whispered back, pressing his kiss to his ear. Hearing his voice seemed to calm Murphy, slow him down and ease the remainder of his shaken, neglected need. Though for him it got no better, the pain around his heart, the burning in his head, no less. And holding his brother, with the look now coming from those black eyes, a trusting need for reassurance, he knew it would never.

Brice was breathing next to them. He could hear him. He ventured a look, to find Brice staring at them with his jaw tight and his nostrils flared, like a man at the end of a short rope. Wanting to come closer.

With his forehead pressed to Murph’s temple, he gave Brice a wry smile. “Will ye be leavin’ us to our special brand a’ sin, now, friend?”

Murph offered up a tight smirk. He was pleased to note. “Maybe in Wales they fuck sheep but not family.”

“Jesus, Murph,” he said softly, going for a note of disapproval but coming up well short. He reached for Brice.

Brice didn’t need to be asked twice. He stepped forward.

Murphy was looking at Brice in complete silence. But his breaths were coming in slow and shallow, and he could have groaned with pleasure. Murph’s antagonism, when displaced, never failed to make room for a roguish kind of sex appeal that always had him wanting to undress in a hurry.

Inside their small circle now, Brice brushed a hand fingers across Murphy’s mouth, his eyes slicing right into Murphy.

“Yew a’ra hot young thing,” Brice said, his blurry words heavy with all that was taking place in his lower parts. Then his hand disappeared into the back of Murphy’s head and he pulled Murphy in for a kiss. 

And Murphy, brat that he was, having gotten back what was his, let him.

It didn’t appear, as he watched, that either Murphy or Brice knew what hit them. For Brice, getting off on whatever he was, it was obviously potent, but for Murphy there was no forewarning. Not for the knee-weakening confidence with which Brice touched and conveyed his wants. Within seconds, a response had begun forming in Murphy’s jeans. 

He might have made a sound.

Without breaking concentration Brice reached out and curled his arm around his waist, pulled him in. He stumbled closer and immediately started sucking on Brice’s tongue as soon as Brice offered it. He could feel Murph’s eyes boring holes into them. Brice first broke the kiss, then pulled Murphy in until he got the message, took his brother by the shoulder, and began to lap up his kisses. At last he breathed as he felt Brice’s hand between their bodies, starting to unzip Murphy’s jeans.

**19**

The man was a fucken pervert, of that he had no doubt. As who else would want to fuck two brothers at the same time. 

But he was a _hot_ fucken pervert.

Brice, who’d stood there rubbing himself and blowin’ air through his mouth while watching him and Connor go at it like there was no tomorrow, was sucking on his cock, good and hard, like the pervert he was. 

But Connor had him in his arms, kissing him.

Behind him with his legs and arms wrapped around him, Connor was holding him and stroking his hair. Kissing him like in the old days, like they were back in time when they had no worries. When he removed his eyes from Brice’s mouth doing wonders on his cock, Connor was even looking straight into his eyes. Neither avoiding his gaze nor looking away with their eyes met.

With his arms wrapped around Connor’s thighs, Connor’s heart was beating against his back.

This was all he had ever wanted. All that ever felt right.

With Connor whispering in his ear, asking him whether Brice was doing a good job, his toes had started to curl. But just about when he felt about ready to pop his load, Brice would slide his hot wet lips off his cock and rise to them, spearing a burning gaze down at him each time he passed to take possession of Connor’s mouth. Like he wanted to own them or something. There he would lick Connor, and make his taste his brother and Connor would moan like a fucken girl.

He could see what Connor was so taken by. Brice was fucken good at this. He gave off no type of pressure, just wanting to enjoy seeing a person to do as he pleased, seeming to take tremendous pleasure in being a part of it. It was, he admitted, highly sensual. 

Which didn’t negate the fact that he was a fucken pervert. And no doubt fucked sheep.

**20**

Now here was an interesting thing.

Spent, and slowly stoking himself back to life, he was rested comfortably against a bale of hay and watching the two brothers. Murphy was on top of Connor, one hand pressed somewhat thoughtlessly into Connor’s shoulder to lift himself, while Connor, on his back, kissed and touched his brother’s chest.

They were shaking to pieces with a need that was not diminishing.

In his most fevered picturing of it, he had not imagined this. Never come close. He had long ago lost his breath, long since lost his head, could not take his eyes off the scene before him. Though he had guessed at their relationship right from the dark haired one’s despairing visit, his talk with Connor had left him presuming a simple occasional indiscretion between the two. Maybe a slightly deeper misery on Murphy’s part. 

But it was nothing like that. Nothing that small.

And it was the thing going on with Connor that struck him as truly remarkable.

For truth be told, he hadn’t quite bought the “you look so much like my brother” bit as being the rationale for Connor’s unshakable attraction to him, a thing that had proved so powerful that even when making love with a stranger it throbbed greatly from him. Now however he thought he understood it. 

Now it was clear that Connor’s heart only beat when his brother touched him. That what Murphy so recklessly wore on his sleeve, Connor buried deep inside himself, and yet it was his propulsion from the start of his day to the finish. 

He saw now that Murphy need not have worried, for the intensity of feelings that Connor carried for his brother was all that there was. 

And he saw that that frightened Connor.

And when he saw that, he felt sorry for the both of them.

**21**

This must have been what original sin felt like. The one that started it all. Hot as the burning sun. Soul-consuming.

For they had run so far from America, so far from their lives. 

Murphy was falling apart behind him, his head buried in his shoulder, wailing his name like the keys to salvation. And Brice was in front of him, his hand on Murphy’s slow moving hips, his beautiful, dark head occasionally dipping low along his body to take him in his mouth.

He was reaching back and kissing Murphy’s temple, to keep his mind from unraveling. But he was still coming undone. When Murphy kissed him, it was too hungrily, desperately. And so it was happening all over again. A spark as if his soul had ignited. He welcomed it, pliantly, feeling that it was right, like pressure against the ache of a sore muscle. 

And even as he tensed all over with a need to push back and save any part of himself, he tightened his hold on his brother and kissed him harder, deeper and longer.

Just as Murphy has said, it was right, this pain was the thing he was meant to carry. Even as it hurt, it was his hurt to carry. They had been born feeling this pain. And he would die in it. 

And then he felt a hand slipping between their bodies, sliding across his chest and bringing him back to the world.

He opened his eyes not knowing he had closed them, to see Brice staring at him. Brice was seeing his state. And he was looking back, seeing how easy it had been with him, how he had gotten what he wanted free of his pain. 

Brice closed the small space between them, pushing wet strands of hair from his forehead. And as if in pity. In suspended motion from Murphy setting him alight, Brice stroked soothingly down this throat.

“Yew’re alright, lad,” Brice said softly.

And somehow, he was true.

Murphy’s arm came around him and he closed his eyes, holding tight to the arm around him, bringing it closer. And suddenly he could let go. 

In a way he hadn’t since leaving America, he was finally able to see the truth of three years of pain in exile from a life of perfect happiness.

They had been young and invincible. And only because of that had their deadly love not seemed so terrifying. 

As Murph rocked into him and Brice went down on him, instead of a formless fear of an abyss, he knew now that that was all that it was.

**22**

Brice was pulling on jeans, T-shirt, and a wool coat. And he watched like a well-fed cat. Done, Brice turned to him, nodding with narrowed eyes.

“It were a real pleasure.”

“Were it now?”

And for the first time since he had known him, Brice smiled. It was a self-directed thing, as if unaccustomed to having it on his face. 

Brice nodded toward his cigarette. “You’re sure you should be doing that in here, now?”

Sucking a lungful of smoke, he tilted his head toward Murphy. “S’long as he’s here with me, we could both burn and it’d be okay.”

Brice gave him a startled look, which he ignored. But he smiled. At least Brice knew he wasn’t joking. It was probably why he liked the man.

Extricating himself from Murphy’s limbs and getting to his feet, he dropped the butt to the floor and carefully squashed it out. Then he walked slowly with Brice to the barn door. There Brice wrapped his arms tightly around him, crushing him. He smiled, feeling genuine warmth pulse through him, and felt even better as they began to kiss. First on the cheek, and then on the mouth. No siren call of guilt in the back of his mind. Just warm memories left from one man to another. 

He supposed he would always feel this way about this man. Moments later, and Brice was gone.

**23**

He sat smoking a third cigarette for a long time, watching the untroubled slumber of his sweet brother.

Half an hour or so after he had returned from saying goodbye to Brice, Murphy finally stirred, lifting his head and gazing about him like a woken baby.

Rubbing his eyes, Murphy cleared his throat and asked, thickly, “Is he fucken gone?”

“Aye.”

Reclined against a bale of hay, he kept watching his brother, somehow only now feeling the prickly poking of the hay on his bare ass through the rough wool blanket.

“How’ya feelin’?” he asked.

“Fucken tired, man.”

He nodded absently. For a while there was a silence during which he did nothing but smoke.

“So what’d ye think was gonna happen, Murph?” he asked. “I was going to run off with a perfect stranger just because he happened to look like ye?”

Murphy, to his everlasting credit, blushed.

It was how crazy this life was making them, that Murphy had seriously harbored such thoughts. 

And that _he_ had run off the rails like he had. 

“Why’d you do it, Conn?” Murphy asked, quiet as you pleased. “Push me away like that.”

His heart squeezed. “I think we both know why. But I should have handled it better.”

They were both silent. 

Then, in a voice so low he strained to hear it, Murphy asked, “What was it like?”

It wasn’t an odd question. They had both been with men and women, usually separately of course — people liked the idea of being with twins but they weren’t show monkeys. But neither of them had ever become… emotional over it.

He smoked a little bit, thought about it. “It was…” 

And then he felt he couldn’t say it. _It was like freedom._

“It was—interesting.”

He paused inside their continuing silence, listening to his choice of words, and felt that it was enough. Maybe one day he’d have the right words to say more.

He glanced at his brother. “We haven’t really been actin’ much like ourselves lately, have we, Murph?”

Murphy slowly sat up, indicating that he pass the cigarette. He handed it over. Murphy took a long, slow drag, blew out smoke, and handed it back.

“I’d say your asshole tendencies have been consistent,” Murphy said.

“Come to think of it,” he amended without skipping a beat, “You did manage to stay as much of a pain in the arse through all of it.”

Murphy turned and looked at him, and for the first time in what really felt like years, Murphy smiled blissfully at him. It was euphoric to see.

“We must never fight like that again, Murph. Do ye understand?”

“Aye.”

“No man can replace the feelings I have for you in my heart. I may be stupid sometimes but I could never become that stupid. Do ye hear me, Murph?”

Murphy’s smile widened into an even sweeter one, the one he always carried with him when he thought of his brother.

He shot forward and kissed Murphy hard on the cheek. Murphy giggled.

“Come on,” he whispered, clamping the cigarette between his lips and gripping Murphy by the wrists. Quickly wrestling him to the floor, he climbed on top of him before Murphy knew what was happening. “Give us a roll in the hay.”

Murphy laughed breathlessly and struggled under him, trying to gain the upper hand while he used his knee to pin one of his wrists to the hay, until Murphy breathlessly said, “Uncle.” Then he sat back and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, crushing it completely on the floor. 

Looking down into Murphy’s dark, happy eyes, he said, “I think we should sleep in the same bed from now on.”

Murphy lowered his eyes, rolling his lips tight. After a moment he nodded shyly, and very happily said, “Okay.” Then he raised hopeful eyes at him. “All is well, Connor?”

He nodded. And shifting until he was straddling him fully, he ran his hands through his brother’s hair. “Aye,” he said softly. “All is well, Murph.”

Then he lowered his head and gently closed his lips over Murphy’s open mouth.

_**Epilogue** _

They returned to the farm to find their Da sitting out on the veranda. 

If the old man knew, or could see that something was different about his boys, he gave no indication.

And that was for the best. As, after all, they had work in the morning, and had to get to bed.

_End_


End file.
